It All Comes Tumbling Down
by Bad Faery
Summary: In which Rumpelstiltskin makes a rather different deal with Regina- Novelist Izzy French isn't sure what to make of the escaped mental patient who stumbles across her secluded cabin, claiming to know her. She's certainly never seen him before, but somehow he knows exactly how she takes her tea.
1. Prologue

Rumpelstiltskin adjusted himself so he was leaning more comfortably against the bars of his cage, watching with malicious amusement as Regina ranted about her failure to enact the Curse. It was a minor enough setback for him; the witch was vicious enough to rip out her own heart to make this work. In the meantime, he enjoyed her frustration, dangling the knowledge she wanted just out of her reach so she had to jump for it like the child she was.

"I think I can persuade you," Regina smirked and withdrew a small hand mirror from the depths of her dress. She thrust the mirror into his face, and he watched as the surface swirled and gradually refocused, showing him a dungeon quite similar to his own, if a bit drier.

"Already in a dungeon, dearie," he trilled, "It's not much of a threat." There was little else she could do to him without his dagger.

"Watch," she breathed, and as he looked, the mirror's angle shifted and he found himself looking at a huddled figure on the dungeon floor. Her face was resting on her knees, but he didn't need to see her face; the crown of chestnut curls was quite enough.

The queen yanked the mirror back as he lunged for it, pressing himself against the bars to stretch farther, his claws just barely brushing the metal frame. "Ah, ah," she scolded, tucking the mirror away again and robbing him of the chance to see his beloved. His _very much alive_ beloved, and as soon as he was out of this cage, he was going to kill her for lying to him. "Tell me what I want to know or I'll rip her heart out."

"You lay a finger on her, and I'll never help you again. You _need_ me," he snarled. He couldn't leave Belle in her hands as a permanent bargaining chip. "I give you what you want and she goes free. You never interfere with her again, and you make sure she's comfortable."

"She'll be the richest woman in town," Regina vowed, her eyes greedy. "Tell me what I have to do."

He did, counting down the moments until the curse hit and he'd be free to find his love. She wouldn't remember him of course- damn Regina, he would have done things so differently if he'd known- but he'd make her fall in love with him again. Then, when the savior came, they would find Bae and be the family they were always meant to be.

Rumpelstiltskin's mind raced with plans. He'd court her, do things properly this time. He'd have no magic to impress her with, but surely he'd still be able to make her laugh. She'd love him again, and they would be happy. Maybe it would even be for the best that she didn't remember how he'd shouted and cast her out. They'd start fresh.

When the curse came, he embraced it, eager to reach the new world that had so many wonderful things waiting for him. Instead, he found he'd traded one dungeon for another, this one furnished with cold tile walls instead of dripping stone, but the ambiance was no better. 'Asylum,' the curse memories helpfully filled in for him, 'Dangerous, locked away.'

He nearly fell as his leg tried to fold beneath him, a familiar pain flaring through his knee. It seemed his old Ogre Wars injury had returned. Splendid. Regina was nothing if not petty. He tried the door, prowled every inch of the cell, but there were no weak points, no loose stones, nothing that might facilitate an escape. He was as much a prisoner as he'd been in the Enchanted Forest, and the thought made him grind his teeth. At least Belle was free and safe; he'd feel it if Regina had broken their deal, and she hadn't. Belle would live in comfort.

She would live in comfort _without him_, which infuriated him. These twenty-eight years were supposed to be their time together, and Regina was stealing that from them. For that she'd pay.

Twenty-eight years was a long time, but manageable enough for a creature like him who'd lived for centuries. He'd find his way out, and in the meantime, he had plans to make, The curse should have dropped them in the general vicinity of where Bae would be coming through the portal in twenty-eight years, it was just a matter of narrowing down where exactly he would be. He had to figure out how to approach Belle. He wouldn't be able to just steal her away this time; he'd have to earn her trust, and he was long out of practice at that.

The door behind him clanked, admitting a large man in a white uniform. "Time for your medicine, Gold," he said flatly, holding out a small paper cup, "Don't make me shove it down you again."

His body ached at those words as they awakened curse memories of old injuries, memories of having his mouth forced open, jaw nearly cracking as pills were poured into his mouth. He didn't care for the thought of undergoing that again. "I'll comply," he agreed, rising from his narrow bunk and bristling at the man's mocking grin as he limped close enough to take the cup from his hands and knock it back, his body telling him that he knew how to do this. He swallowed, the capsules dragging down his throat.

The man hadn't quite shut the door entirely behind him. With his leg, running would be out of the question, but perhaps he could over... power... him... next...

He sat down hard on the bunk, the world slowing down around him, going curiously grey and stretched like a charcoal picture left in the rain. Cold sweat broke out over his body, and he sagged sideways, collapsing with his head hanging halfway off the bunk. He didn't seem to have the strength to move it.


	2. Chapter 1

Pills followed pills, day after day. He fought sometimes and refused others, and all it left him with were bruises on his arms and face and a cracked jaw before the world went slow and grey. If he prepared himself, he found he could dream of Bae and Belle during the grey times. Before the man came, he pictured both of them as clearly as he could- Bae's bright eyes and Belle's soft curls. He envisioned them smiling at him, beckoning him to join them, and he did, wrapping his arms around Belle as they watched Bae play in a sunny park.

Needles came next. They made the world go sharp and jittery, like everything around him was quaking, and the air hurt where it touched his skin. It was harder to picture Bae and Belle now. They didn't visit him any longer when he was awake, but sometimes he felt Belle's fingers running through his hair or Bae's hand tugging at his arm. He wished he could see them.

His memories were strange now. Sometimes he saw Bae in a sunlit apartment, other times a hovel. The hovel was real, he knew it was, but it didn't _feel_ real. He couldn't remember how he'd met Belle. His name wasn't Gold, but he wasn't sure what it was anymore.

The shocks came next, little patches stuck to his temples that made him scream and writhe and soil himself. More memories disappeared each time. There had been a forest and a castle and a war and... He couldn't remember what else. He clung to Bae and Belle, gritted his teeth and kept them at the forefront of his mind during the shocks so they couldn't slip away from him. Even so, pieces kept going missing. He lost the color of Bae's eyes. The sound of Belle's laugh went next.

He had to endure. He had to wait because something was coming. He'd be free then, and they'd all be together, and they'd be so happy to see him, and he'd hold them and hold them and hold them and tell them...

He couldn't remember what he wanted to tell them, only that it was important, but he trusted it would come back to him. It was on the tip of his tongue, really it was. He'd remember as soon as he saw them again. He so wanted to see them, just for a moment. If he could just see them for a second he'd have the strength to keep waiting. He just wanted to see Belle and... and... their boy. He wanted to see Belle and their boy.

The dark-haired woman came sometimes to smile at him through the door, a cruel satisfied smile, and every time she visited more memories went missing. She was taking them, stealing them from him; he knew she was. He hated her for that. She stole important things, things he _needed_. Worst of all was the day he woke up to find Her name had gone.

He sobbed then, cried like a child as he huddled in the corner of his cot and rocked, trying to soothe himself. There was no soothing this hurt, no bandaging this wound. She was gone; he'd lost Her. All he had left were fragments: soft curls, the scent of lavender, warm lips against his. _What was Her name_?

The dark-haired woman smirked and smirked as he glared. He would not cry in front of her. "So fierce," she mocked, her smile growing larger. "I could make it all stop, you know? Set you free."

His voice was hoarse and rusty, and he didn't know where the words came from when he asked, "What's the price?"

She laughed at him then. "You haven't changed a bit. A trade- you get out of here, and your girl takes your place. You're not much use to me like this."

"No." He bared his teeth in a snarl. He would not trade Her freedom for his. She had to be free. Knowing She was free was the only thing keeping him together.

The woman's eyes narrowed. "She doesn't even remember you. She doesn't care that you're in here. She wouldn't care if you died in here."

He glared back, not letting her words break him. She was a liar, a filthy liar. "No deal."

"Fine," she tossed her head, her tone light and careless. "I wonder if she's seeing Gaston again tonight. He's ever so taken with your little Belle."

He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath as the flap slammed shut and her heels clicked away down the corridor. Belle. _Belle_. Her name was _Belle_. How could he have forgotten that? "Belle, Belle, Belle," he whispered over and over again to himself, greedy for the sound. He willed his lips to memorize the shape of the name in case his fractured mind ever lost it again. Her name was Belle, and She was his, and he would see Her soon.

Time stretched and compressed and moved strangely. There were always more pills, more needles, more shocks, and more pieces of himself disappeared each time. He couldn't remember what he looked like anymore, but from the emancipated appearance of his bruised wrists, the lack of mirrors might be a blessing. Belle came and went, the dark-haired woman stealing Her away from him, but he never despaired like he had that first time, because she always gave Her back. She'd come to the little hatch and smirk and smirk and taunt him by saying that Belle was happy he was locked away in here where he couldn't bother Her. She had a lover, a good man who made Her happy, and She never even thought about him. He ignored the content of her messages, focusing on saying Belle's name to himself again and again, memories of Her beauty and kindness and gentle touches coming back to him as he did.

On very good days, the dark-haired woman brought him pictures, making him beg and crawl before handing them over, and he'd wait until she left before curling up on his cot to stare at them greedily. They were always pictures of his Belle with a tall, dark-haired man, and he hated that man, but it was easy enough to tear his face from the pictures and imagine himself in his place. Their boy was never in any of the pictures which worried him a little, but at least he had his Belle.

No matter how well he hid his pictures they were always taken from him, and he snarled like an animal at the man when he came in with pills, but it did no good. No matter how he threatened or begged, the man never gave them back, and he had to wait until the dark-haired woman came back before he could see his Belle again.

One day the dark-haired woman brought something different- a piece of newspaper instead of a picture. "Do you want it?" she taunted, holding it up on the other side of the door out of his reach as he crouched by the hatch. "It's about your girl."

He bared his teeth and grabbed for it, but she jerked it out of his reach, letting the heavy hatch door fall on his arm. He ignored the burst of pain and strained harder, the tips of his fingers just brushing the thin paper. "No!" she brought her hand down on his wrist in a stinging blow. "Beg me."

He snarled, and she beamed at him through the hatch, lifting it once again to see him clearly. She had the paper in her hand, holding it so he couldn't see what was on it. "Beg or I'll take it away." She tucked the paper into her pocket, starting to stand, and he keened desperately.

"Please. Please give it to me. _Please_." His voice was hoarse and broken which seemed to please her, and she held the paper out to him.

He snatched it from her hand, careful not to tear it, unable to wait until she'd gone to look. It was another picture of his Belle and the man only this one was in black and white which he didn't like as well. He preferred it when he could see Her pretty blue eyes. Under the picture was writing, and he had to frown at it for a moment before he could make it make sense. 'French- Ashton'

"She's getting married," the dark-haired woman said with a vicious smile, "She's not yours anymore. You don't mean a damn thing to her. She'll marry him and give him children, and she's never going to so much as think about you again."

He shook his head, his long hair tangling over his face as he retreated to the corner of his cot. It was a trick. His Belle wouldn't forget him. His Belle wouldn't give herself to someone else. She loved him. They were a family- the two of them and their boy- and as soon as he got out of here they would be together. They would _always_ be together.

He knew it was a trick, but he couldn't stop thinking about it. He read the brief article again and again, hungry for any word of Her. How could he forget She was a writer? If he could forget that, couldn't She forget him? His twitching fingers crumpled the paper in anguish, then he smoothed it out painstakingly to stare at Her again.

He had to see Her. He had to get out of here so he could see Her and make sure She remembered him. If She didn't, he'd remind Her, and they'd be in love again. They'd be happy.

First he had to get out and he had to do it soon because the shocks followed the dark-haired woman's visits, and they always left him vague and confused for days. If he didn't go now, he might forget. This was too important to forget.

The light outside was getting hazy and soft, and that meant pills. Carefully he placed the little paper in his pocket and slipping out of his shirt, leaning against the wall next to the door to keep his weight off his bad leg. He needed to rest it, because for this to work he would need all of his strength. This had to work. He had to get out and find Her.

He counted his heartbeat until the door opened, and he threw his shirt over the man's face as he flung himself bodily at him, using his own momentum to slam the man's head into the metal door. When the man dropped, he took off at a shuffling run, bracing his hand against the wall for support, the pain in his knee almost blinding, but he couldn't let it slow him down. If he slowed down, he would never find Her.

It was easy to see where to go; he simply headed in the direction that wasn't a dead end. A woman was sitting at a desk under a bright light, and his hands found her throat before she could yell, somehow knowing where to press until she slumped forward. No one else was there.

He had to think, but it was so hard. He didn't want to think. He wanted to run and run and get to his Belle, but even he knew a running man would attract attention. There was a white coat on a hook, and he slipped it on, forcing himself to move slowly up the stairs.

The door at the top opened with a touch, and he blinked at it. In his experience doors did not simply open, but this one did. The sound of people assaulted his ears, and he hissed, but he couldn't turn back now. She was out there. She needed him to find Her.

He slipped around the door, and took a second just to look, seeing doors with trees beyond them several hundred feet away. Through those doors was freedom. He just had to reach them.

Moving at a deliberate pace, he tried to hold his head up and look like he knew where he was going. People didn't stop people who looked like they knew what they were doing. He didn't know how he knew that, but he did.

He looked at no one, and no one looked at him, and the doors grew ever closer. Between one breath and the next he was through them, the pavement cold against his bare feet. The air was cold, colder than his cell, and he shivered violently, but he didn't stop limping away. Up ahead he could see trees- a forest. Forests were good. He liked forests. This one would shelter him until he could find Her.

He needed to find Her. Everything would be all right as soon as he found Her.


	3. Chapter 2

_The room was stark, entombing a living woman. Truly, she had died years ago, her only dirge the screaming of children at play._

Isabelle French stared at the sentence glowing at her from her laptop's screen, then reached out with one finger and carefully pressed the backspace key over and over until nothing was left.

This was not going at all well. Her first three books had come easily, pouring from her fingers to the page. The glowing reviews and critical acclaim had shamed her. She didn't feel like she'd written them at all, merely served as the conduit for them to write themselves.

Her fourth book was clearly going to be quite different. Sighing, she buried her face in her hands. The problem was that she had a publishing deal and absolutely nothing to say. It wasn't writer's block; there were no words struggling to be freed. The words weren't there at all, and it was driving her mad.

She'd retreated to the cabin last month hoping that in the solitude she'd be able to hear herself think, but thinking wasn't the problem. She had plenty of thoughts but no ideas, and she was never going to meet her deadline if she didn't come up with a few.

Snorting to herself, she reflected that it was possible her life was simply too boring to provide inspiration. She'd made her peace with her mother's death in _White Lamb _and worked out her daddy issues in _Lion at the Gate._ Looking down at her engagement ring, she made a face. Greg wasn't interesting enough to inspire anything but vague affection.

For the life of her, she didn't know why she'd agreed when he asked her to marry him. She didn't love him, and she was reasonably sure he didn't love her either. Her father just looked so _worried_ all the time, and she'd thought doing something normal like getting married might help. However, Moe French still looked worried all the time, and now she was stuck with Greg.

A noise outside pulled her out of her thoughts, and Izzy glanced at the door. It was almost certainly an animal of some kind, but she'd always found animals inspiring. Rising, she went to the door and opened it, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

Try as she might, she saw nothing, and she stepped out onto the porch, leaning against the railing as she took a deep breath of the cold night air to clear her head. "Belle?"

The voice was rough and broken with an accent she couldn't quite place, and Izzy nearly jumped out of her skin. "Who's there?" she asked, her own voice shaking. No one came here. No one ever came here. It was what she liked about the place.

"Belle!" A ragged figure stepped into the pool of light that spilled from the cabin's front door. Izzy had just enough time to register that the figure was male and very underdressed for the weather when it lunged at her, strong arms wrapping around her and clinging with desperation.

"Let go!" she snapped, struggling against the hold, her heart racing. Planting her hands on the man's chest, she shoved him away, and wounded brown eyes gazed back at her.

"Belle?" She backed up a few steps to put more distance between herself and the stranger. He was only a few inches taller than she was and slender, but deceptively strong. His long hair was a mess, and he had the sour smell of someone who hadn't bathed in too long. Even in the dim light she could see how pale his face was, but it glowed with hope when he looked at her. "It's me."

He watched her intently, apparently waiting for her to recognize him, but Izzy had never seen this man before in her life. "I don't know you."

His face crumpled, and he staggered back a step like she'd struck him. "Belle?" he whimpered, and there was an ocean of pain in his voice.

His step brought him back into the circle of light, and Izzy gasped at the sight of him. He was a mess, his skin covered with bruises and scratches, and she realized that his feet were bare. He was out with bare feet in January in Maine.

"Come inside," she said, not sure where the words were coming from. Something was _wrong_ with this man, but he was hurt and confused and cold, and she couldn't let that stand.

The man followed her like a puppy, sticking close to her back as she led him inside. He looked around the cabin with interest then turned back to her. "Where's our boy?"

"Our boy?" she repeated, and he nodded.

"I'm sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about," she said, feeling like she was playing a scene where only one person had the script. He flinched. "Look, I'm Izzy. Isabelle French?"

His nod got more enthusiastic. "Yes! My Belle."

His Belle? That was weird. The entire encounter was weird. "And you are?" she prompted.

He gazed back at her mutely for a long moment then asked in a tiny voice, "You don't know?"

"Should I?" She looked at him more closely, struggling to place him. In a way he looked almost familiar, but Izzy was willing to swear they'd never met before. Perhaps she'd seen him around town. "Maybe we've run into each other before? Where do you live?"

He winced at the question, and Izzy's eyes finally caught up with her brain. He was wearing loose fitting cotton trousers that looked like scrubs and a thin white coat. There was no way this man was in the medical field, which left one other option. "You came from the hospital."

He nodded miserably, but Izzy felt nothing but relief. That explained everything. There'd been some kind of accident, and he'd wandered away. No wonder the poor man was so confused. "How were you hurt?"

"I got away," he told her earnestly, looking like he expected to be praised for it. Izzy guided him over to the couch by the fire, sitting down herself, and he sat so close their sides were pressed together.

"What happened?" she prompted.

"She locked me up, but I got away," he explained.

"Locked you up? Who locked you up? Where?" This was starting to sound less and less like a simple accident unless he was considerably more muddled than she'd thought, and Izzy cursed herself for ever thinking that her life was dull. Dull was good.

"She. Her," he said vaguely, waving one hand and giving her a look at a plastic hospital bracelet around his bony wrist. "In the basement."

The basement of the hospital was where the mental patients were kept, and Izzy inhaled sharply. The man wasn't injured; he was ill. He was also painfully thin, covered in bruises and scrapes, and unwashed. They'd been mistreating him.

Reaching out she took his hand, and he grasped hers eagerly, pressing a little closer. Tugging on his hand, she turned it so she could read the bracelet on his wrist. "R. Gold. Mr. Gold?"

He frowned. "Not my name."

"What _is_ your name?" At her question, he just looked agitated, and Izzy hastened to soothe him, "No, it's all right. It's fine. It doesn't matter."

Letting him hold onto her hand, she tried to think. This man- she wouldn't think of him as Gold- had escaped from the asylum where he'd been abused and half-starved. He couldn't go back there. The problem was that Izzy didn't know where else he could go.

She could call Sheriff Graham, but he'd probably want to take the man to the station and from there it would be a short trip back to the asylum. Besides if she called, Deputy Swan might answer, and the thought of having to talk to that forceful woman made her nauseous.

For some reason, this man didn't make her feel the slightest bit uneasy. The one person in the world who probably was a danger to her felt utterly safe. Maybe it was because he needed her.

Without knowing it, she'd already made the decision. "Wait right here. I'm going to make tea and get you something to eat." Words appeared in her head in a mental checklist: Document the evidence. Feed him. Get him cleaned up. He'll need clothes. Call Dad.

She put the kettle on and opened a can of chicken noodle soup. After a quick look at her guest who was staring at her like he was afraid she'd try to run away, she added another can. The poor man was little more than skin and bone.

While the soup was simmering, she headed upstairs after reassuring him that she'd come right back down. Greg had left some clothes here at some point, and they'd be far too big for her guest, but they'd have to do until she could get her father to bring him something more appropriate. Her father... Izzy didn't know how she was going to explain this to Moe French.

She put the clothes in the bathroom and grabbed the Polaroid camera she used to document her inspirations when she heard the kettle start to whistle. Hoping the loud noise wouldn't upset him, she hurried back downstairs to see her guest making a pot of tea. With practiced hands, he warmed the pot, then added an equal mixture of chamomile and lemon verbena leaves, having to open two canisters to do so.

The mix was her favorite, and there was no way the man could possibly have known that. This had moved from odd into the realm of impossible, but Izzy couldn't let herself think about it now. She held up the camera and tried not to look at the teapot. "I want to take pictures of your injuries. What happened to you isn't right, and we might need proof. Will you let me?"

Her guest didn't argue, just let her position him how she wanted him. Izzy made certain to get everything from his filthy, matted hair to his battered feet and every bruise in between. "Are there any more?"

She hissed as he unbuttoned the coat. He was so thin she could count his ribs, his skin so pale that she wondered if he'd ever seen the sun and there were livid marks on his upper arms and chest. "You poor thing," she whispered, "Oh sweetheart, I'm so sorry."

The endearment slipped out without her even thinking about it, and he lit up, looking like he wanted to hug her again. Instead, Izzy quickly grabbed for a bowl and started to ladle soup into it, indicating that he was to sit at the table.

Her guest sat, and once she'd gotten him a spoon and a napkin, she turned to see him carefully pouring the tea. As she watched, he added two sugar cubes to one cup, stirred, and offered it to her, having prepared it just as she liked it.

Her writer's mind pounced on the idea like a dog with a bone, but the practical side of Izzy forced herself to ignore it. She could worry about it later. At the moment, they had things to do. She traded the bowl of soup for the tea and took a swallow. "Thank you."

He looked from the bowl to her anxiously, and she nodded to encourage him. "Go ahead. Eat it while it's hot."

His brow furrowed. "You?" he attempted, sliding the bowl toward her. "Need to eat."

Traps stung at her eyes when she realized what he was saying. The man looked like he hadn't had a decent meal in months, but he was worried that she was hungry. "I already ate dinner," she assured him, and only then did he pick up the spoon.

She got both cans of soup down him in record time, and Izzy did a mental check of their supplies. If he hadn't been eating properly, soup would be easy for him to digest. She'd have her father bring her groceries along with the clothes. "Let's get you cleaned up," she prompted when he'd finished, and her guest followed her obediently upstairs to the bathroom. "There's soap and shampoo in the shower, and I'll get you towels," she narrated as she did just that.

"I put some clothes out for you too. They'll be too big, but they're clean and warm. Here, it takes a little while for the shower to heat up." Drawing the shower curtain aside, she turned on the water to adjust the temperature, and he jumped back, wide eyes fixed on the spray.

"You don't mind water do you?" she asked. He didn't look afraid, exactly, just wary.

"No," he answered, sticking one hand into the spray and pulling back almost instantly before sliding it back in and waving it a little, an expression of delight blossoming on his face. "Warm."

Izzy nodded, his smile contagious even as her heart sank. What had they been doing to him in the asylum that he was surprised that water was warm? A thousand horrible possibilities presented themselves, solidifying her resolve not to let him go back to that place. "Take as long as you want. I'll be downstairs."

He didn't look happy at the prospect of her leaving, but he didn't argue as she slipped out the door and back down the steps, reaching for her phone. Automatically, she dialed the only number in her contact list. "Hi, Dad."

"Is something wrong?" he asked before even saying hello. "You don't normally call this late."

"Nothing's wrong," she said quickly, and it wasn't exactly a lie even if it wasn't the truth. "I just need you to make a supply run tomorrow."

"I'll grab a pen," he said, sounding much happier.

Izzy went down her normal list, adding ingredients for the soup she wanted to make as her father repeated everything back to her. Once she'd requested all the basics, she added, "And a few sets of men's clothes, size small. Sweatpants and tee shirts should do. Socks, a winter coat, a good pair of slippers. Oh, and could you pick up a cane?" Her guest had a serious limp, and the cane might help steady him, especially if things got icy.

"Izzy, what's going on?" Her father's voice was quiet.

"Research?" she offered, knowing he'd never believe her.

"Really?" He didn't.

"No," she admitted, "I'll explain everything. I promise I will. Just... Not right now, okay? And just leave the bags on the porch."

"Izzy..." His voice carried a warning, then he sighed. "Alright. I hope you know what you're doing."

Izzy hoped the same thing as they said their goodbyes, and before she could even put the phone down, there was a knock at the door. For a place she liked for its seclusion, the cabin was certainly bustling tonight.

She opened the door only halfway for her own protection and that of her guest. "Yes?"

"Sorry to bother you, Miss French." The man on her doorstep was wearing a heavy coat and hat, making him difficult to identify. His eyes were the only things showing, and they were colder than the January night. "Have you seen anything unusual tonight?"

"No," she answered, working to keep her voice steady. "Why?"

White teeth flashed in a friendly smile that didn't match his eyes. "Someone else in the area reported a disturbance; I was just checking it out. If you do hear or see anything, please contact me." He proffered a business card that contained only a phone number and initials, and she wondered just who was looking for her guest. This man didn't work for the hospital, she was sure of that, and he certainly didn't work for Sheriff Graham.

"Of course," she agreed, pushing the door shut in his face and locking it firmly, not moving until she heard him step off the porch. For once Izzy was glad she had a reputation for being antisocial. Through that lens, there was nothing unusual about her behavior tonight. Her secret and her guest were safe. She would keep them that way.


	4. Chapter 3

His Belle had called the thing a shower, but it was nothing like what the man from the basement had called a shower. The man had stripped him and held him beneath an icy spray of water. This water- Belle's water- was warm and made his body relax even as it stung at his cuts. After a while even those stopped hurting, and he just stood under the warm spray and let it soothe him.

He had his Belle back, and that was good. Belle was what he needed more than anything in the world- Belle and their boy. Their boy wasn't here though, and Belle didn't seem to know where he was. That was a problem. First he had to make Belle remember him. Once she remembered him, they could go find their boy and be a family again.

Some part of her must remember him. Why else would she have treated him so kindly? He was warm for the first time he could remember. Even in summer his basement was cold. She'd fed him and called him sweetheart, so she must remember him a little. He just needed to remind her.

He picked up what she'd said was soap, although it was smooth and hard instead of slimy like he expected, and it didn't smell right. It smelled good though, and he enjoyed rubbing it over himself, starting to feel clean for the first time in... in... ever. He needed to be clean for his Belle. That was important.

He rubbed the soap over his hair, tangling it further. Her hair was soft and pretty, and it had been so hard not to touch it. His Belle was still wary of him though, and he couldn't frighten her.

When he started, he thought he could stand under the wonderful warm water forever, but soon enough he found himself growing lonely for Belle. He couldn't remember the exact sound of her sweet voice, and he was impatient to hear it again. He played with the silver handle Belle had used to make the water start, and briefly doused himself with cold water before he made it stop. Shivering, he dried himself off with the fluffy towels she had given him, then turned his attention to the clothing. The trousers were loose like his basement clothes but of a soft, heavy fabric. They were too big and too long, but there was a string to tighten them.

Even with the string pulled tight, the trousers spilled over his feet, and he rolled them up as best he could before tugging the loose shirt on over his head. A glance in the mirror made him flinch. Had he always looked this old and worn? He was very lucky that Belle didn't seem to mind.

The thought of Belle made him move faster, and he tucked his newspaper article into his new pocket and lurched back into the bedroom, holding onto the wall for support. She was already there, sitting on the bed, and he paused for a moment, letting himself bask in her presence. Belle was here, close enough to touch. After so very long of having nothing but her pictures to look at, she was _here_.

She giggled at the sight of him, and he closed his eyes, whimpering. How could he have forgotten her laugh? Her laugh was as beautiful as the rest of her, a magical sound. How could he have forgotten?

"I'm sorry," she said, and he sighed as the laughter faded. "Tomorrow we should have some clothes that actually fit you."

He didn't mind the clothes. If seeing him in them made her laugh, he would wear them happily. They were clean and warm, and he couldn't remember ever being clean and warm before. Belle made everything perfect, but even if he had to be cold and dirty, it would be worth it if he was with her.

Not quite perfect, they still needed to find their boy. Before he could find the words to ask again, she beckoned him closer, and he sat down eagerly at her side, her warm body pressed snugly against him. Leaning closer, he breathed in the scent of her, committing it to memory. No matter what happened he would never again forget Belle's laugh or the sweet scent of her skin. He would never allow himself to forget anything about her.

Soft fingers stroked his hair, and he groaned at the touch. "We need to get you taken care of," she murmured, and he whimpered when she left his side.

Belle didn't go far, just retrieved a box filled with gauze and ointments and things he didn't recognize. With tender hands, she bathed his wounds in something that stung, but she crooned to him, her comfort soothing away the small hurt as she carefully covered his broken places with gauze and cut off the plastic bracelet that had always been around his wrist.

"Are you in pain? Do you want an aspirin?" He recoiled at the sight of the small white pill in her palm, memories of the man cracking his jaw open and shoving pills into him making him tremble.

"No pills," he begged. Belle surely would never do that to him. He'd comply if she did. He didn't want the memory of her forcing him.

She froze, looking at him carefully, then she put the pill away. "No pills," she agreed. "Did they make you take pills at the hospital?"

"All the time," he rasped. There had always been more pills, more needles, more shocks. "Fought," he admitted, rubbing a jaw that ached at the memory.

"You're safe now," his Belle murmured, and he pressed against her desperately, needing her touch. He moaned when she put her arms around him, holding him close. "No more pills," she promised, and tears stung his eyes.

He would have happily spent the rest of forever in her arms, but she pulled away after a few minutes. "Let's take care of your hair, then you can get some rest."

She moved to sit behind him, her legs on either side of his hips, and she scolded him gently when he tried to lean back against her. "Sit up, sweetheart, otherwise I can't reach."

Her hands were gentle with his tangled hair, and she apologized profusely every time she pulled. He didn't mind. His Belle was touching him, taking care of him. They were together again, just like he'd dreamed for so very, very long. Everything she did was a joy. "You didn't use conditioner, did you?" she sighed as she worked. "Remind me to show you that tomorrow."

That was a word he didn't know, so he filed it away. She wanted to do something with him tomorrow. He wouldn't let her forget.

There'd been something he wanted to tell her, he remembered. There was something he was desperate to tell her, but he couldn't remember what it was. The feel of her hands in his hair centered him, and his mind didn't feel quite so tattered and bruised with her near. Everything was better with Belle near. What did he want to tell her?

"There we go," she murmured, combing through his hair in long strokes. "Much better."

The words appeared in his mind, and he gasped in relief, blurting them out before he could forget them again, "Love you."

Behind him, Belle went still, then she gently kissed his cheek. "Get some rest," she coaxed, easing off of the bed and guiding him to lie down. "Do you need anything?"

As long as he had her, he needed nothing but their boy, but this wasn't the time for that discussion. She had to remember him first. He shook his head, and she patted his hand. "I'll leave a light on for you," she promised, turning off everything but a small lamp, then she left the room with a soft "Good night."

He looked around the room with interest as he waited for her to come back. It was a small room, no bigger than his basement, but it was cheery and warm with comfortable furnishings and heavy quilts. His cot had been hard and narrow, but he felt like he'd sink into this bed and never emerge. It was glorious.

He'd never been so comfortable, never been so happy. He had his Belle, and there was no sign of the man he didn't like. They belonged to each other again. Smiling senselessly at the ceiling, he stroked his hand over the soft quilt. Her scent clung to it, and he wrapped himself tighter, longing to wrap himself around her and hold her close. He would as soon as she came back.

Eventually he realized that Belle had been gone a very long time, and his heart quickened its rhythm. He'd heard nothing. No one could have taken her. The dark-haired woman couldn't have stolen her from him.

Worried, he slipped out of bed, leaning against the dresser and then the wall as he made his way to the door which opened at his touch. Maybe only basement doors were locked. He slipped through noiselessly, looking for his Belle. Upstairs there was only the bedroom and the shower room, so he took the stairs, finding the room with the couch at the bottom of them.

The room was dark, but he could make out the outline of Belle wrapped up cozily in a quilt and curled up on the couch. Frowning, he glanced at the stairs then shrugged. Perhaps Belle didn't like to sleep in the bed. He'd thought it was very comfortable, but if she preferred to sleep down here, they would sleep down here. Awkwardly, he lowered himself to the floor beside her couch. The fire made it warm, and although it was harder than his cot, Belle's presence made it very comfortable indeed. Resting his head on his arm, he reached up to clutch at the edge of her quilt, slipping into an easy sleep.

When he woke, Belle's quilt was wrapped around him, and Belle was sitting on the couch beside him, looking worried. "Did you spend all night on the floor?"

He nodded, wincing as he tried to get up. His body ached from yesterday's activities, and his knee felt like it was on fire. Never had he moved so much before his escape, and now he was paying the price. The sight of Belle's blue eyes made it more than worth it.

She sighed, the worried look on her face not going away as she helped him off the floor. "I'll make you breakfast."

He followed her into the little cooking place, looking in surprise at the shiny things that she used. Some part of his mind identified 'stove' and 'refrigerator' but they didn't look right. There was no fire to make the stove work.

Belle twisted a knob, and the fire suddenly appeared, sending him jumping back. "Easy," she soothed, and he peered closer, wondering if it was magic.

There were other things he did recognize, and he smiled when he figured out the silver handle that made water appear. He filled a kettle and placed it on the stove, playing with the dial. The fire didn't appear for him until Belle showed him how to turn it only a little way and wait, then it blazed merrily to life. Belle cooked eggs as he waited for the kettle to heat, and this felt just right. They must have done things like this before. He wondered if she remembered yet.

His hands knew how to make tea, knew exactly what she liked, and pride filled him at her approving smile. This was going well. Even if she didn't yet, soon Belle would love him again, and they'd find their boy and be a family. He'd never let the dark-haired woman hurt them or tear them apart again. Family was important. Family was forever.

Belle got him sitting down and put a plate of something that smelled delicious in front of him. In his basement, food had been cold and tasteless, but everything Belle touched was perfect. His stomach rumbled, but he ignored it, older memories making themselves known as he watched her anxiously, making certain that she had enough food for herself. Food was scarce, and he would eat only after she'd had enough. Belle could not be allowed to be hungry.

He whimpered with dismay at the sight of her plate. She had less than he did, and that wasn't right. As she sipped her tea, he tried to switch their plates, only to be stopped by her hand on his wrist. She was touching his skin, and he could barely concentrate on her words as warmth spread through him.

"What are you doing?" she asked softly, not letting him exchange his plate for hers.

"Need to eat," he tried to explain, nodding anxiously at her plate. He was used to being hungry. That was fine. Belle must not go without.

Her eyes softened, and she squeezed his hand tightly. "You don't have to worry," she assured him, getting up, and having her walk away didn't make him feel better at all. She opened the large shiny box to reveal an impressive amount of food. "Look, we have plenty. We can both eat as much as we want, and there will still be more. I have enough. Go ahead and eat."

The idea of 'enough food' didn't want to fit into his tattered mind, but Belle wouldn't lie to him. If she said they had enough, they had enough. He applied himself to eating the food she'd prepared, her care sustaining him as much as the meal itself.

"I wish I knew your name," she sighed once they'd finished.

He wished she did too. He'd been counting on it. No matter how much he'd worried in his basement, part of him had never truly believed that his Belle would forget him. She wasn't damaged like him. She should remember. Something nagged at him, an explanation, but he couldn't make any sense of it. There was something about a spinning wheel and a green light and snow, but he couldn't make the pieces fit together. With a sharp rap, he struck his temple, trying to jostle them into place, and Belle let out an exclamation of dismay.

"No, no," she said quickly, catching his hand in hers, "Don't hit."

The answer was somewhere in his mind, and he knew that if he kept trying he could force it free, but Belle was pulling him away from the table, her hand tight around his, and finding the answer suddenly didn't seem as important. "Maybe I can guess," she suggested as she pulled him down next to her on the couch, and he pressed as close to her as he could get. "We could make it a game."

A game sounded like a wonderful idea, and he nodded eagerly. "All right. Your bracelet said that your name starts with an R. Does that sound right?"

He made an R noise, trying it out. He wasn't sure that it sounded right, but it also didn't sound wrong, so he nodded again, more hesitantly this time,

"So, names that start with R," Belle said, studying his face. "Robert."

That was _definitely_ not right. Wrinkling his nose in disdain, he shook his head, and she laughed. "Okay, so not Robert. Richard? Ryan?"

None of the names were right, and he kept shaking his head. Undaunted, Belle kept her guesses coming. "Roland? Ralph? Roderick? Reginald?"

No matter how many names she said, none of them sounded right, and a thrill of fear ran through him. He'd been certain he'd recognize his name when he heard it, but what if he didn't? What if she'd already said his name and he hadn't known it was his? What if his name really was Robert and he didn't know?

Eventually Belle's guesses slowed as she struggled to think of more names. "Randy?" she said hopefully, her shoulders slumping in dismay when he shook his head. For a moment, she looked pensive, then she giggled, "Well, if you're going to be difficult, I'm going to start calling you Rumpelstiltskin."

"_Yes_!" he shouted so loudly that she flinched back. He grabbed her hands with delight, recognition coursing through him. Rumpelstiltskin. He was Rumpelstiltskin. How had he forgotten that? Of course Belle knew his name. She did know him!

"Rumpelstiltskin," she repeated doubtfully. "Your name is Rumpelstiltskin."

"_Rumpelstiltskin_," he trilled, releasing her hands in order to make an extravagant gesture that somehow felt just right.

She stared at him in silence for a moment then shrugged. "Okay. Rumpelstiltskin it is."

Names were important. Rumpelstiltskin remembered that now. Names were very, very important. Now that his Belle knew his name, she'd soon remember the rest of him, and everything would be just right.

"Rumpelstiltskin is kind of a mouthful," Belle told him. "Could we shorten it a little? You call me Belle; maybe I can call you Rum."

He called her Belle because it was her name, but if his Belle wanted to call him Rum, that would be fine. Rum. He liked it.

"It's nice to meet you, Rum," she said formally, holding out her hand, and he took it in his, bending over it to kiss the back of her hand. She smiled at him fondly but took her hand back before he could kiss it again. "Can you tell me about what happened to you? In the basement?"

Rum didn't like thinking about the basement. "Bad," he rasped. "It was bad. Don't go there." The only thing worse than the thought of going back into his basement was the thought of Belle being there. It was very important that Belle be free. The dark-haired woman had threatened to lock her up, but he wouldn't let her. Nothing would hurt Belle.

"You're safe now," Belle crooned, and he pressed himself against her. Her arms went around him, cradling him against her chest, and he murmured in relief. Nothing could be wrong with Belle holding him. "I just want to understand, Rum. How long were you there?"

There were memories of other places, but they were vague and dreamlike. They weren't real like the basement was. "Always. Forever."

"Did they ever let you out? Did you ever go outside?" He snorted at the thought. He'd all but forgotten what the sun even looked like.

"No. No windows even. Just the basement."

Belle made a sound of distress, and he looked up in concern, but she tugged him closer until his head was resting in her lap, her hand stroking his hair. "You didn't have enough to eat."

That didn't sound like a question, but he nodded anyway. Before Belle he'd always been hungry, always been cold. The worst had been the loneliness. He'd been so terribly alone with only his memories of her and their boy to comfort him, and the dark-haired woman had stolen too many of them away.

"I'm going to do something," Belle promised him, still petting his hair. "I don't know what yet, but you'll never have to go back there again. You're safe here."

Her voice sounded odd, and he looked up, whimpering when he saw that she was crying. With shaking hands, Rum tried to brush her tears away. He'd upset her. He hadn't meant to, but he'd upset his Belle. "Wasn't all bad," he offered, hoping it would help.

"It wasn't?" she asked, wiping her face off with her hands.

"I had you." Careful not to tear it, he retrieved his precious piece of newspaper from his pocket, holding it up for her to see. He'd had his memories of her and their boy and his pictures of her. It had been enough to keep him together. Now he was free, and he had all of her, and everything would be perfect as soon as they found their boy.

Belle took the article from his hand, her face going blank. "Where did you get this?" she asked quietly, sticking one finger through the hole he'd made where the tall man's face had been.

"She gave it to me." Belle didn't look satisfied with his answer, but it was the only one he had. She placed the piece of newsprint out of his reach, but that was all right. He didn't need it anymore. He had his Belle now, and they'd never be separated again.


	5. Chapter 4

The reminder that the man she thought of as her guest was actually an escaped mental patient made Izzy's stomach clench. Rum had reacted to everything with such sweet good-nature that she'd almost forgotten that there had to be a reason he was locked away. No one was put in an asylum for being a little over-affectionate.

The article he'd handed her- her engagement announcement- was troubling to say the least, she admitted to herself, trying to concentrate on petting Rum's hair instead of looking at the place he'd gouged Greg's face out of the picture. Some fans got over invested- she knew that, she'd read _Misery_- but her own work was so intellectual and inaccessible that she'd assumed she was safe from that kind of attention.

If he'd gotten fixated on her, that would explain his overfamiliarity. He could have assigned her a nickname in his head, created a fantasy life around her. It would explain a lot. It did not explain how he knew how to make tea just as she liked it.

Rum snuggled a little closer to her, and Izzy sighed. If she was smart, she'd be more worried about this. She could be harboring a dangerous man. So far, Rum was being agreeable, but she hadn't refused him anything yet. If he wanted something she was unwilling to give, he could hurt her.

Try as she might, she couldn't quite bring herself to view Rum as a threat. When he'd gotten upset at his inability to remember his name, he'd struck himself, not her even though he'd been disappointed she hadn't known it either. He worried that she had enough to eat. He slept on a hard wooden floor instead of in a comfortable bed just so he could be close to her.

Although her intellect told her to be wary, every instinct she had told Izzy that Rum was safe. The only person in the world who didn't make her nervous was an escaped mental patient. There was something wrong with her.

A noise outside caught her attention, and Rum sat up, his head jerking in the direction of the sound, his body tense, "It's all right," she murmured, placing her hand against the back of his neck. "It's just Dad dropping some things off."

True to his word, Moe French made no effort to come in although she could see him outlined against the curtains, trying to see through the linen to what was happening inside. "Izzy?" he called, loud enough to be heard through the door, "You okay?

Rum whined at the sound, looking distressed, and she rubbed his neck as she answered, "I'm fine. I'll call you tonight."

He hesitated for a moment, then called, "Love you, Iz."

At those words Rum seemed to relax a little. "I love you too, Dad."

Moe French stepped off the porch, and a moment later Izzy heard the flower van start up as he left to make the deliveries people actually paid for. With the proceeds from her novels, her father didn't need to work, but he'd laughed at her when she suggested an early retirement, demanding to know what she expected him to _do_ all day. He had his flowers, and Izzy had her books, and the arrangement suited them both fine.

"Come on," she gave Rum a nudge to get him off of her. "Let's bring things inside."

He helped her with the bags, trying to carry more than he was capable of so she didn't have to do as much work, and Izzy's heart melted. Whatever was wrong with Rum, he did _not_ deserve to be locked away. Perhaps she could get Doctor Hopper to come talk to him and see if he could shed some light on the mystery.

In the meantime, she started a pot of soup with ham and lentils, sturdy fare that would hopefully put some meat on Rum's bones. Whatever they'd been doing to him in the basement, they certainly hadn't been feeding him properly.

Further exploration revealed the clothes she'd asked her father to bring- simple, well made pieces that looked like they'd suit him far better than Greg's cast offs. "Here you go," she announced, handing him the bag. "These are for you."

He handled each piece of clothing with the reverence due to a holy object, wonder in his eyes. Tears stung her eyes at his reaction to this simple kindness, and she herded him upstairs for a lesson on the use of shampoo and conditioner before leaving him to shower and change into clothing that actually fit him.

As Rum got himself cleaned up, Izzy put away the rest of the food and finally found the cane she'd asked for. It was a handsome thing- mahogany wood with a golden handle- and she recognized it as having belonged to her grandfather. Granddad had been taller than Rum, but as she leaned on the cane to test its sturdiness, Izzy decided that it would do nicely.

As Rum descended the stairs, she took a moment to just look at him. A single day had made a remarkable difference. He no longer looked so feral, and just being clean had made a dramatic improvement in his looks. Once they got some weight on him and his bruises healed, he'd be quite a striking-looking man. He was still too pale, and Izzy frowned. The weak winter sun would do little for that considering how shaded the cabin was by trees, but fresh air and exercise would certainly do him good.

She met him at the bottom of the stairs and offered him the cane, Rum taking it from her hand and leaning tentatively on it, taking his weight off his bad knee. His face lit up like she'd given him the world, and before she could say anything, Izzy found herself in his arms as he hugged her hard, his face buried against her throat. "Belle," he rasped, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. "My Belle."

Never had she met anyone as starved for affection as Rum, and she hugged back, rubbing her cheek against his hair. "I've got you, sweetheart," she promised. "I'll take care of you."

He moaned, nuzzling against her like a cat. "Love you, Belle. Love you, love you, love you."

"Shhhh..." Izzy patted his back. "Come on. Let's go for a walk."

The outside seemed to both fascinate and frighten Rum. He jumped at every noise, and Izzy was skittish herself. She'd heard and seen no traces of other people in the vicinity, but she couldn't forget that only the night before someone had been looking for her guest. In the interest of safety, they stuck close to the cabin but that seemed to be about as much nature as Rum could handle without getting overwhelmed. He patted every tree, caressing the bark and inhaling deeply to take in the scent of fresh air after too long indoors.

The slippers her father had provided were sturdy with decent soles, unsuited for hiking, but perfect for a slow wander around the cabin's paths. Even with his new winter coat, Rum's face turned pink from the cold, but he didn't seem to notice, too enraptured by being outside.

After ten minutes or so, Izzy started to relax when no one came charging out the underbrush to take away her companion, and her mind began to wander. The previous day she'd had no idea what she would write her fourth book about, but she suddenly had plenty of ideas. No one in society really talked about mental illness. An exploration of that theme would require massive amounts of research, but it would be a worthwhile cause if it garnered people like Rum more acceptance. An entire section of the population was being forgotten, and that was wrong.

Part of her mind kept worrying at the tea issue, and no matter how she tried, she couldn't make sense of it. It was like Rum had slipped through a crack in the world and landed here. Maybe he'd known her in his original universe, Izzy thought whimsically, and her mind suddenly caught fire, alight with possibilities.

_Gold is a perfectly ordinary man enjoying his perfectly ordinary life with his wife and son until he suffers a head injury during an earthquake- _no, no, during a car crash, that could happen to anyone_. When he wakes up, his wife doesn't recognize him, and their son is nowhere to be found, and he has to figure out if the world has gone mad or if he himself has, because he knows her inside and out and she doesn't recognize him..._

Suddenly her fingers were itching for her laptop, and Izzy laughed aloud in relief, Rum looking at her in surprise. "Ready to go back in?" she asked, and he came willingly, going to the kitchenette to start a pot of tea as she settled herself on the sofa with her laptop in her lap, her fingers starting to fly.

The next time she looked up, the room was dark and there was a cold cup of tea at her elbow. Rum was sitting on the floor next to her, his head resting on the sofa by her hip, and guilt coursed through her. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry!" she blurted, and he started awake.

Normally Izzy couldn't write with anyone else in the room. Sometimes even having her father in the same house was enough to throw her off, but she'd written the day away with Rum at her side and never hesitated. It felt right to have him there.

That just made the way she'd ignored him worse. "You must be starving," she said, and he didn't deny it, following her to the kitchen where the soup had been simmering all day. It was thick, more of a stew than soup after reducing for hours too long, but it would still taste good. She dished up a bowl for both of them, concerned when Rum merely picked at his.

"It doesn't taste good to you?" she fretted, and he shook his head frantically.

"No! Good," he assured her, but he still wasn't eating it.

Concerned, Izzy pressed her hand to his forehead, wincing when she felt how warm he was. "You have a fever."

"Head feels funny," he confessed, and she made the executive decision that dinner was over. She helped him up the stairs and tucked him into bed, kissing his forehead when he whimpered and reached for her.

"I'll be right back," she promised, running back downstairs to grab a pitcher of water and a glass for him as well as her laptop. Rum looked relieved when she came back, and she leaned against the headboard beside him, unsurprised when he snuggled into her, pillowing his head in her lap.

He was too hot and trembling slightly, but he didn't sound congested. "Do you feel sick at all? Nauseous?" she asked, and he shook his head without stirring from her lap. If he'd spent years locked away alone, his immune system would be vulnerable, but he didn't seem sick exactly, just not quite well. His fever wasn't high enough to be dangerous, a fact that Izzy was grateful for. She couldn't exactly haul him in for a visit to the doctor.

Another thought crossed her mind. Rum had said they gave him pills. If he'd been medicated, he could be going through withdrawal. Stopping his medicine could be dangerous. She didn't know what they'd been giving him, whether stopping cold turkey would hurt him.

They only way to find out would be to take him back there, and Izzy couldn't do it. She'd keep an eye on him, and if he got worse, she'd take him to the hospital, but that would be her last resort. She'd promised Rum that she wouldn't let him be locked up again, and she would keep that promise.

Briefly she wondered what the pills had been meant to treat. If he was on antipsychotics, his good nature could be chemically induced instead of genuine. He could become dangerous as they wore off. Try as she might, Izzy couldn't picture Rum as a threat. Any doctors who'd allow him to be neglected so badly couldn't possibly be enforcing a proper medicine regime. They would just have to wait and see what happened. There was no sense in borrowing trouble.

Satisfied with her decision, Izzy petted his hair until he slipped into sleep, then pulled her phone out of her pocket. "Hey, Dad."

"Izzy! Are you all right?" Moe French sounded even more worried than usual, and she felt guilty about that.

"I'm _fine_," she assured him, hoping he believed her.

"What's going on?" he demanded, and she really couldn't blame him, yet she still didn't want to explain. If she told him about Rum, he'd insist in joining them at the cabin for her safety, and she worried about how Rum would handle the new addition. Just hearing Moe on the porch that morning had spooked him.

"I… I kind of met someone," she told him. It was even true.

"Really?" Her father sounded absolutely delighted. "You met someone? You like him?"

Izzy looked down at Rum's shaggy hair and carded her fingers though it. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Her father had hold of the wrong end of the stick, but if he thought she was squirreled away with a lover, he'd give her privacy and stop worrying so much. "Better than Greg?" he asked.

She'd forgotten about her finance. Izzy usually forgot about Greg when he wasn't actually in the room. "He's more interesting than Greg," she allowed, and her father chuckled.

"Say no more. I'll run interference for you." Even though they'd been dating for years, Greg still didn't know exactly where the cabin was, and Izzy planned to keep it that way. Fortunately her father seemed to be on her side.

"Thanks, Dad," she sighed, chatting a bit more about how his day had gone before they hung up. The moment she killed the connection, the phone vibrated, and she checked the caller, seeing Greg's picture on the screen. Without a second thought, Izzy turned the phone off and tossed it aside, petting Rum when he stirred in his sleep. "I've got you, sweetheart," she assured him, and he calmed at the sound on her voice.

Giving his hair a final pet, Izzy turned her attention back to the laptop at her side. She'd made good progress that afternoon, but she still had a lot of catching up to do before she was back on schedule for her fourth book. If anyone asked her where her inspiration had come from, no one would _ever_ believe her.


	6. Chapter 5

He felt odd. His body seemed to be too warm and too cold at the same time, his head aching. In the basement he'd been ill frequently, but this time seemed different. Rum thought it might be because he had his Belle with him now. She brought him soup and crackers to eat and sat with him for hours, her hands gentle in his hair, soothing him.

As long as Belle was with him, the sickness wasn't too bad. She talked to him and read to him, and it was just like he'd imagined it would be. She knew his name now and cared for him; she had to be remembering him. Belle was remembering him, and as soon as he felt better they'd find their boy and be a perfect family.

Belle spent much of her time with a shiny thing she called her computer. Rum would rather have had her attention on him, but she allowed him to lie next to her as she played with it and frequently read him things that she'd written. "_'You don't remember me?' he asked, voice breaking. 'Should I?' she replied, her eyes curious and holding no hint of recognition._"

He beamed at the story she was telling. "Us. Writing about us," he said contentedly.

"I've never written fantasy before," Belle confessed, putting the laptop aside so he could rest his head in her lap. "I always thought it was frivolous, but I'm having a lot of fun with this book."

"True love and happily ever after," he observed. He and Belle had true love, and as soon as they found their boy, they'd live happily ever after. He couldn't wait.

"Something like that," she said vaguely, and something about her tone wasn't quite right. He nuzzled closer, trying to comfort her, and Belle eventually relaxed, her hand straying to his hair. He'd dreamed about moments like this while he was in the basement, but actually being with Belle was so much better than even his best fantasies. Rum was surrounded by so much warmth and love and happiness that he couldn't imagine how he'd ever survived without it.

Sometimes when they were walking outside, breathing in the brisk air and greeting the trees, his time in the basement seemed like some kind of strange dream. This was his real life, and it had been worth every moment of waiting.

Days passed and slowly he started to feel better, his headache and chills fading by the day. Belle seemed delighted by his progress, and he beamed at her, pleased to have pleased her. His only remaining symptom was the dreams, and they seemed to grow more vivid each night.

The dreams were strange things where he saw the word through a cloud of purple fog. The woman from the basement featured prominently in them as did his Belle. He saw their boy occasionally, just the barest glimpses, but he found them comforting. It was good to see their boy even in dreams.

Sometimes in the dreams Belle smiled at him and teased him, and he loved those dreams. Others were less pleasant. In some she cried, and he knew it was his fault, yet his mouth moved to shout at her instead of comforting her as he longed to do. One horrible night he dreamed of hurting her, of shaking her and shouting, and Rum woke up whimpering, curling as far from her on the bed as he could get.

"Rum?" Belle's sleepy voice cut through his terrified shaking. "What's wrong?"

Warm hands came to rest on his shoulders, coaxing him to roll back toward her, and it took all his strength not to obey. He didn't deserve Belle if he was going to dream such things. "Hurt you," he rasped.

"No, you didn't," she soothed, rubbing his back. "You didn't hurt me, sweetheart."

"In my head," he tried to explain. "Dreams."

"You dreamt you hurt me?" she asked, and he nodded, ashamed. For a moment Belle thought about it. "Do you _want_ to hurt me?"

"No!" He sat up, nearly shouting the word. "No, no, no. Never want to hurt you. _Never_."

Hurting Belle was an anathema. Just seeing it in his dream had left him trembling. The thought of doing real harm to his precious Belle... never. He'd die first. Belle must _never_ be hurt. If anything threatened her, he'd protect her, even from himself.

"It's all right, sweetheart," she murmured, sitting up so she could put her arms around him. "It was just a bad dream. Dreams don't mean anything."

Rum wasn't sure that Belle was right about that. His dreams felt important for some reason, but maybe everyone's dreams felt like that. Sighing, he relaxed into Belle, letting her pull him back down so they could snuggle together in their bed. At some point they'd started sleeping in the comfortable bed together, and he liked it much better than the floor. Like this, he could put his arms around her and hold her close, and she didn't push him away.

In the basement, time had passed strangely, moving too fast and too slow all at once. Here with Belle, his days were long and blissful. He had her company, and every day she grew more comfortable with him. She still didn't say 'I love you' back when he said it to her, but Rum was confident it was only a matter of time. His Belle loved him. She just didn't remember that she did yet.

If they had their boy, his life would be perfect. Try as he might, Rum could find no trace of him in the cabin. There were no pictures, no clothes that would fit him. It was like their boy had simply vanished from the world, but people didn't just vanish.

He thought the woman from the basement might have him, but she'd never mentioned him like she had Belle, so it seemed unlikely. Still, he'd like to investigate further. His mind was clearer now, and it was easier to think about things. They wouldn't find their boy by staying here, no matter how much he loved their home.

He'd seen little of the town when he was fleeing the hospital, and his curiosity was growing by the day. "What's it like?" he asked her over breakfast one morning a few weeks into his stay with her. "Storybrooke?"

Belle pulled a face. "It's a typical small town where everyone tries to mind everyone else's business."

"Can we go?" he requested. If their boy was in Storybrooke, they'd find him. Surely Belle would remember him once they found him.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," she said doubtfully. "People might be looking for you."

He'd forgotten that he wasn't supposed to be out of the hospital. Being with Belle felt so right that it seemed the whole world must be happy that they were together, but the dark-haired woman wouldn't like it. She'd separate them if she could.

It was a problem that seemed to have no answer. It wasn't safe to leave this place, but their boy needed them to find him. No matter how hard he thought about it, he couldn't reconcile the two.

Belle occasionally left him alone while she went outside with the little box that she used to talk to her father. The box fascinated him as did her stories about the man. For some reason he'd been wary of Belle's father, but she explained that they were close even though he didn't understand her. She loved the man, and he took good care of her, and that was good enough for Rum. He was certain they'd like each other when they finally met.

Curious about what they were talking about, he slipped his coat on and followed her outside, smiling as the wind caressed his face. It was cold, but after the nothing that was his basement even the cold felt good.

"The book's really coming along," Belle said into the box, her posture a little stiff, "You know how I get when I'm working. Besides, it hasn't been _that_ long since we saw each other."

Her father must want to visit, and he approved of the idea. Rum didn't care to share his Belle, but he wanted to know everything about her, and that meant meeting the people she cared about. Before he could add his own voice to her father's request, Belle continued, "Yes, of course I miss you, Greg. I'm just busy."

She wasn't talking to her father, he realized with a surge of anger. Greg was the tall man's name, the man he didn't like. Greg had no place here, even if it was just through a little box. Belle was _his_. She shouldn't miss Greg; she had him.

He must have made some kind of noise, because Belle turned to look at him, her eyes widening as he stepped forward. "I have to go; i'll call you later," she said, lifting the box away from her ear. "Rum..."

Her voice carried a warning, but he couldn't stop himself. Reaching out, he plucked the box out of her hand and flung it as far away as he could into the underbrush. Once it was gone he wrapped his arms around her possessively, rubbing his face against her throat, begging for her comfort. She didn't need Greg; he was here now.

"Oh, Rum," she sighed, putting her arms around him so she could rub his back.

"I don't like him," he muttered, and she laughed a little, but the sound wasn't happy.

"I don't either most of the time," she admitted, and that made him feel better. "You still shouldn't have done that."

He whimpered at her censure, nuzzling her throat in apology. "Sorry."

"It's okay," she forgave him at once. "You have to help me find my phone though."

Reluctantly he released her, following her off the porch in the direction he'd thrown the box. The terrain was uneven, but his balance was better now, and he had the cane Belle had given him for support. He needed it as he searched, the cold air making his face sting. Belle's cheeks were pink, making her look absolutely adorable, and he longed to kiss her face, warming her with his love for her.

After a search, he finally spotted the little box, wincing at the sight of it. It seemed to have landed on a rock, and he was certain that the corner hadn't been smashed in like that before he threw it. "Found it," he called, leaning on his cane as he stooped to pick it up.

"Thank you," Belle said sweetly, taking the box from his hand and looking at it in dismay.

"Sorry," he apologized again as she played with it. Normally it chirped when she touched it, but this time it remained stubbornly silent, and he cringed. He'd broken it; he was certain that he had, and Belle would be well within her rights to be furious with him.

"It's all right, sweetheart," she sighed, slipping the box into her pocket. She looked at him seriously. "Promise you won't do it again even if you get upset."

"Promise," he vowed at once. Belle's belongings were sacrosanct. He would not damage them again.

"Thank you." Leaning up, she kissed his cheek and took his arm, helping him back toward the cabin. He shivered at the touch of warm air when they stepped inside, and Belle led him to the couch, tucking a blanket around him. "I'm sorry, Rum. I shouldn't have kept you outside for so long. It's cold."

"Didn't mind," he assured her. It felt good to be of help, even if he'd created the problem himself. Even cold was pleasant if he was with Belle.

"We do have a problem though," she informed him, curling her legs beneath her. "We don't have a landline out here, and my father never checks his email. I'm not sure he even knows how," she said with a chuckle.

"I'm going to have to go back to town so I can get a new phone," she continued, and a combination of delight and terror filled him. If they went to town, they could find their boy, but the dark-haired woman might try to lock him up again or- worse- take Belle away from him.

"Do you want to wait here until I come back or come with me?" she asked.

He couldn't let Belle go alone. The dark haired woman could be lying in wait for her. He had to protect her. He was stronger now. No one would ever lock him up again. No one would be permitted to harm Belle. "With you."

She gave him a crooked smile. "Somehow I knew that you were going to say that."

He beamed back, glad that they understood each other so well.

"All right," she slapped her knees and stood up. "Let's get ready and go. Maybe we can get lunch at Granny's. I'm dying for a good hamburger."

Rum wasn't sure what a hamburger was, but if his Belle liked them, he was certain that he would too. He showered and dressed, Belle looking at him critically when he came downstairs. "We should get you some new clothes while we're out too," she decided. "I don't think the tee shirts and sweatpants are really _you_."

The clothes she'd given him were a thousand times better than anything he'd worn in the basement, but if his Belle wanted to see him dressed differently, Rum wouldn't argue. He put his coat on and followed her out of the cabin to something he'd thought was a small, oddly-shaped building. He hadn't looked closely at it before, but now he saw that there were seats inside, and he took his place next to Belle, wrapping a belt around himself when she showed him how to do so.

"Ready?" she asked, and he nodded, jumping when the thing made a growling noise. Some part of his mind threw out the word 'car,' but he wasn't sure what the word meant.

Belle did something, and the car started to move. Whimpering, he clutched at the handle that happened to be on his right, and Belle made the car stop. "You okay?"

She seemed perfectly calm, if a bit concerned about him, and Rum pushed his panic down. If Belle wasn't afraid of the car, he wouldn't be either. She wouldn't put him in danger. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to nod. "Okay."

"Okay," she smiled tenderly, putting her hand on his knee, and when she made the car move again, the warmth of her touch distracted him enough that he forgot to be nervous. They were having an adventure and going to find their boy. There was nothing to fear as long as Belle was at his side.


	7. Chapter 6

The car ride seemed to fascinate Rum, and Izzy tried to hide her smile, dividing her attention between her companion and the road. His nose was practically pressed to the window, watching the passing scenery with rapt attention.

As they reached the more populated areas of Storybrooke, things changed. The first person they saw was Billy who worked at the town garage, and Izzy was hard-pressed to imagine someone less threatening. Rum whimpered at the sight of him, crouching down a little in his seat like he was trying to hide even though he kept peering out the window.

She patted his knee, felt the way he was trembling, and cursed herself. Rum had been locked up alone for ages, and since his escape he'd seen only her. Just being outside was a lot for him to handle. There was no way they could simply walk into a store or into Granny's and have him remain calm. They needed to start small.

Instead of continuing onward into town, Izzy took a left and made her way to the sprawling house the royalties from her first book had bought her and her father. It was far too much house for two people, but Izzy had been taken by the old Victorian at once, its vivid salmon color never failing to bring a smile to her face. The Game of Thorns van was in the driveway, telling her that her father had come home for lunch as was his wont. First they'd see how Rum handled Moe French. Only then would she think about taking him out in public.

She got out of the car and beckoned Rum to follow her up the porch steps, finding the stained glass front door already unlocked. Steeping into the house, Izzy pulled Rum in after her, smiling as he looked around the foyer in wonder. "Dad?" she called in the direction of the kitchen, and Rum stepped forward, peering eagerly down the hall.

"Izzy?" Her father sounded only slightly surprised. She'd always had a bad habit of coming and going without bothering to notify him in advance.

Moe French approached her with a smile of welcome, glass of iced tea in hand. He stopped short at the sight of Rum, brow furrowing.

"This is Rum," she introduced, turning to her companion. "This is my father, Moe French."

Rum, bless his heart, stood up a little straighter, obviously trying to make a good impression. He stared blankly at Moe's extended hand, finally grasping it gingerly. He seemed to get the idea of a handshake almost at once, prolonging it longer than was socially appropriate. "Hello?"

"Nice to meet you," Moe said automatically, shooting Izzy a look as he managed to get his hand back. "So, how did you two meet?"

"She locked me up, but I got away," Rum explained. "I found my Belle."

The cryptic explanation did not appear to set her father's mind at ease. "Rum, why don't you go up to my room?" Izzy suggested. "You can pick out some books for us to take back."

To her relief, he agreed, and she watched to make sure he was following her directions- up the stairs, second door on the left- before turning to her father.

"This isn't quite what I expected when you said you met someone," he informed her, still staring after Rum.

Izzy winced. "I didn't want you to worry," she defended weakly. "I knew you'd panic if you knew the truth."

"Which is?" he prompted, the worry she'd tried to prevent clear in his eyes.

"Rum's a mental patient," she admitted. "They've been keeping him locked up in the hospital basement. I don't know how he got away, but he found the cabin and acted like he knew me."

Her father rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Then I'm sure the hospital is looking for him. He's not a stray dog."

"No!" the vehemence in her voice surprised even her. "You didn't see him, Dad. He was a _mess_- beaten, filthy, half-starved. They were abusing him. I couldn't send him back to that,"

"He could have _killed_ you," he told her, and Izzy sighed at his obvious distress.

"Rum wouldn't hurt me," she protested, knowing the words were true. "I know there's something wrong with him; that's obvious, but he's been nothing but sweet and careful with me."

"God," Moe French wandered into the living room and sat down hard on the couch, rubbing his hand over his face. "You've been shacking up with an escaped mental patient for a month. You're smarter than this, Izzy."

Izzy sat down beside him. "It's been a month, and he hasn't done anything," she reminded him. "Doesn't that say something?"

She wasn't sure how to explain the rest- the way Rum seemed to know her, the way he made tea just as she liked it with no prompting, the way Izzy felt comfortable with him in a way she didn't feel with anyone else. "I can write with him in the room."

Her father lowered his hand, looking at her in surprise. "Really? In the room? Not just the cabin?"

He was very familiar with her inability to concentrate with anyone else around, having repeatedly banished himself to long walks around town when she had a deadline to meet. "I can sit next to him on the couch and write." In truth, she usually sat on the bed next to him, but she doubted her father wanted to hear that, no matter how chaste their relationship was.

"I still think you should take him back," he cautioned, but Izzy could tell from his tone that he'd already given up any hope of having her listen. "Or give him to Doctor Hopper if you don't trust the hospital."

"He needs me," she said softly. Her father loved her, and Greg wanted to marry her, but no one had ever _needed_ her before. It felt good to be needed.

"I hope you know what you're doing," he sighed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as he stood up, downing the rest of his watered down iced tea. "Back to work for me, my girl. Call if you need anything."

"I will," she promised, walking him to the door and waving him off, sorry to see the ever-present worry in his eyes. Just once she'd like her father to feel confident about her. She hated the thought that she was a trial to him.

Of course, if her father was going to worry anyway, that gave her some freedom. Nothing she'd ever done had soothed him, so that meant there was no point in trying so hard.

She didn't have to marry Greg, Izzy realized as she closed and locked the door. She'd agreed to his proposal largely in hopes that she'd be able to set her father's mind at ease about her prospects, but he worried anyway, and he certainly hadn't seemed upset at the thought that she was throwing Greg over for another man. If she chose to break up with Greg, he'd support her.

Izzy felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders, and she laughed breathlessly. It was her choice. She could choose not to marry Greg.

She'd already chosen not to, she admitted to herself. Picking up the house phone, she left a quick message on his voicemail, asking him to drop by after work. Better to do it quickly and have it over with. Feeling lighter and happier than she'd been in ages, she took the stairs two at a time, finding Rum sitting on her bed, looking down at something in his hands. "What have you got there?"

He lit up at the sound of her voice, and Izzy smiled back helplessly. It was nice to be needed and appreciated. Maybe if Greg had ever given any sign that he needed her, she wouldn't be in such a hurry to slough him off.

Rum held the object out to her, and she recognized the teacup that usually sat on her dresser, ready to hold her jewelry at the end of the day. It was a pretty thing- white with a delicate blue pattern- and she'd had it as long as she could remember. At some point she'd apparently dropped it because there was a chip out of the rim, but you could hardly see it. "I keep my jewelry in it," she explained, and he nodded, turning it over and over in his hands, his thumbs caressing it like it was made of something more valuable than porcelain.

"You can have it if you like," she offered, and he started, placing the cup carefully back on her dresser.

"Yours," he said reverently, taking his hands back.

"Come on," Izzy kissed his forehead, coaxing him to come back downstairs. "It's lunchtime."

Instead of going to Granny's, she opted to bring Granny's to them, fishing a takeout menu out of the drawer by the phone. Rum glanced at it only briefly before requesting a hamburger, and she swallowed hard, gathering her courage before picking up the phone and dialing. As quickly as she could she placed their order and hung up again, being told that Ruby would be by with their meal in a half hour.

In the meantime, she and Rum explored the downstairs, him petting the various trinkets sitting around, although none of them seemed to capture his interest like her teacup. She watched him indulgently, mind racing as she wondered if she could fit the teacup into her narrative. Maybe Gold and his wife could have some kind of good luck charm that was important to them. Seeing it in her new home could give him encouragement that he wasn't making their shared history up.

The doorbell rang, and she left Rum in the downstairs library while she went to get their food from Ruby, jumping when she found Greg on the other side of the door instead. "I got your message and took off early," he explained, frowning when she didn't move out of the doorway to let him in. "What's up, Iz?"

She hadn't prepared any kind of speech, had given no thought to what she'd say when Greg arrived. Struggling to find some sort of explanation, Izzy glanced down, seeing her engagement ring glittering on her finger, looking totally put of place. Unable to think of anything else to do, she slipped it off and offered it to him. "I can't marry you."

Greg stared at the ring, making no room to take it. "What? We've been together forever."

They'd been dating for as long as she could remember, and Izzy had never been able to think of a good reason to break up with him. Somehow since meeting Rum, her priorities had shifted. She no longer wanted to be with Greg just because she couldn't think of a good reason not to be. She'd rather be on her own until she met the person she couldn't live without. It was her life. She didn't have to share it if she didn't want to.

"Is there someone else?" Greg asked when she remained quiet. After a moment's thought, Izzy shook her head. It wasn't like she was dumping Greg for Rum; Rum just happened to be around. "Do we have to talk about this on the porch? Let me come in."

Rum had done well with meeting her father, but he already didn't like Greg, and the tension would upset him. "We're done, Greg."

"Izzy," he ran a hand through his hair, looking more aggravated than hurt. "Just let me in and we'll talk about it."

The last thing in the world Izzy wanted to do was let him in so they could talk about it, and she clung to the door when he tried to open it further. "Dammit, Izzy!" he snapped, his voice rising.

"Just go away," she pleaded, and she could see Ruby approaching the house as Greg released the door, his posture tense.

"You're not going to tell me why?" he demanded, and she shook her head, the few scant words she'd found drying in her throat. Instead she held the ring out again, and he glared at it, smashing his fist into the side of the house in frustration.

Izzy let out a stifled shriek at the sudden movement, then she heard a feral cry from behind her. Before she could do anything, Rum tore past her, limp forgotten as he launched himself at Greg. "No!" she shouted as he tackled the bigger man, striking at him viciously. "Rum, stop it!"

"Hurt her!" Rum accused, and Belle tugged at his shoulders, trying to pull him off of Greg.

On the sidewalk, Ruby lifted her phone to her ear, and Belle prayed she wasn't calling the sheriff as she was forced to step back when Greg tried to throw Rum off of him. Rum snarled and hit harder, the two men rolling around on her front porch. To his credit Greg seemed to be trying to get away as Rum hit and clawed. "Stop, Rum! Please!" she begged, but no matter how loud she yelled, he didn't seem to hear her.

Flashing lights appeared in the distance, the sheriff's car approaching fast, and Izzy moaned in distress. They were going to take Rum away from her. He'd have to go back to the hospital. "Rum, stop!" she yelled, seeing Emma Swan screech to a halt and get out of the car, gun in hand.

"No!" she screamed, but it was like something out of a nightmare. No one listened. The blond woman advanced on Rum, ignoring Izzy's screams of protest, and Rum kept hitting Greg, snarling like an animal.

"Stop, stop, _stop_!" she shouted, watching in horror as the Swan woman grabbed Rum, wrenching his arms back as she tried to cuff him, and he was fighting so hard that Izzy couldn't get close enough to stop it.

Tears poured down her face as Rum was hauled away toward the police car, Greg looking up at her in shock at the turn of events. "Who the hell is _that_?" he demanded, and Izzy ignored him. Darting into the house, she grabbed her purse and car keys, desperate to follow wherever Rum was being taken. She'd promised him that he'd never be locked up again, and she would _not_ break her word.


End file.
